in the cold light of day.

Kele, Unholy Thoughts

i met the devil last night
at an after show
and then he led me in a cab

no more cokeheads, no more cocaine
you're getting sloppy
and someone has, someone has to say

here is bad, here is bad, here is bad, here is bad

i hear their thoughts now before they speak
i feel their eyes now go through my soul accusing me
we're only partners between the day
these thoughts they multiply

and one by one become unholy

a god that plays dead.

we sit and we sigh and nothing gets done
so right so clued up we just get old
and all the while been torn asunder
nicotine and bacteria

The days burn out like the final breath of a cigarette, tossed to the side and dreamt away.

the sun does not yet know it is a star.

(photo by matthew strong.)

the rhythm of legs moving in the sun
the rhythm of an engine deep and throaty
the rhythm of a summer that you walked in
the sound of a barking dog on a loop
a plane rises in the crystal blue
the rhythm of keys swinging in your hand
the rhythm of light comin' out of your fingers—

the traffic never slows.

Despite the day-old headache, I roused myself out of this apathy and went for a walk around my suburb at eight and went for a walk around the suburbs this early evening with a Canon 350D. Twilight sinking gently into the backstreets of Preston. Barbed-wire fences, ageing industrial wastelands, metal degrading and decaying everywhere. I grew up here and despite the ugliness of it, it's my home and I adore it.

--

Few days ago I discovered a note a good friend had left me in my phone, back in September. I never wanted to be your rolling train; I never wanted to be your dancing shoes. I love surprises and I love that boy.

--

Plastic cups. Burn holes in the carpet. Full ashtray.
Your breathing. Your breathing. You're still. You're still.
Still here. Still here.

Film photographs. Negative images. A ghost of you,
resting against my back. Late spring rain.

Quiet flat. Open windows, impossible night.
Spinning fan. I could recognise that laugh anywhere.

Swallow hard. Against me. Against me.
It's no good.

--

Dashed off, quickly, in a fit of sleeplessness. Right now I'm just writing and writing and writing, knowing that most of it is bollocks, but hoping that with a lot of time and a lot of practice, something of not-entirely-dubious quality will reappear again. I'm looking forward to properly getting my jam on with Luke. Downloaded a copy of FruityLoops a few days ago and gave it a whirl tonight - it's a complete mystery to me, at the moment, but with the guidance of a good friend and some sweet beats, I think we could be on our way to making magic. The dream: I am living it!